Engagement
by Phoebonica
Summary: Before she died, he wore the ring on a chain around his neck. Ficlet. ETA: LemonyBeatrice, because I'm dumb and forgot to put that earlier.


Disclaimer: All characters, settings, etc. belong to Daniel Handler, who is not me. I have no intention of making any money out of this. I'm just doing it to feed my obsession.

**Engagement**

Before she died, he wore the ring on a chain around his neck. Few people ever noticed it hidden under his shirt, and those who did were usually too polite to mention it or at any rate reluctant to get involved. Sometimes when he couldn't sleep he'd lie in bed and gaze at it for hours, holding the diamond and emerald setting up to the light to watch rainbow reflections as they gleamed and changed. He stroked the smooth metal, remembering the days when it had been close to her skin, taking in her warmth. That wondrous moment when he knelt before her and with trembling hands slid it carefully on to her finger. She had tamed lions and climbed mountains and built airships and yet her hands were still so elegant, so beautiful, that he couldn't let go. Gently he raised her left hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers one by one, tried to move on to the right one but she laughed her brilliant laugh and tilted his head upwards, bending down to meet his kisses with her own. Her hands entwined in his hair.

That was the night he tried to remember, not that terrible one months later when the flock of carrier pigeons woke him and he saw what their message must be by the thin golden band gleaming on the last one's leg. And though he knew deep down that it was selfish and ignoble of him (she was safe, and happy, and why would another man _not_ love her? What right did he have to claim her as his?) he still dreamed that one day, somehow, he'd see her wearing it again. He would take her hand once more, and she would smile, and everything would be as it had been. Dreams like that usually hurt him more than they helped, but they helped a little nonetheless. Small rays of hope that made his sorrow easier to bear.

And then she was gone, and there was no hope, and he would never be able to bear it. Locked in his room in the abandoned theatre on that dreadful afternoon he tore the chain from his throat and stared at the ring in horror, choking back sobs. He couldn't keep it. It had been his one last connection to her, the symbol of all his dreams, but all it meant now was hollowness, emptiness, a constant reminder of her non-existence. _She will never be yours. She will never come back to you._ But the thought of simply getting rid of it, say by throwing it into the ocean and letting it be lost forever beneath the waves, was equally intolerable. It had been hers, one of the few things still left in this world that had known her touch. Everything else reduced to so much ash. He thought then that he might return it to her, leave it at her grave, but no. She had rejected it already, spurned it, and he had never won back her love. She wore another ring, given to her by one who had the right to put it there.

He sank to the floor, weeping and trembling, hand clasped so tightly around the ring that the jewels cut into his palm. Not noticing, not caring. She was gone, and he couldn't keep it; she was gone, and he couldn't let it go. He shrieked in grief and rage and frustration, banging his fists against the floor; and eventually, as an infant would, he cried himself to sleep.

When he woke it was dark and nothing was better, but he had, at least, come to a decision. He got shakily to his feet. Hidden under a floorboard in the corner of the room was a box that his grandfather had given him a long time ago, and in that box was the key to another, slightly larger box. There was nothing in there right now but a single roll of parchment. He opened the boxes, carefully, noticing for the first time that his right hand was cut and had been bleeding. Never mind that now. He picked up the ring. The light from the streetlamps reflected off it, casting rainbows about the room.

He would avenge her. How, he didn't know, but he would do something to make up for her loss, her suffering, the pointlessness of her death. Find some way to carry on her legacy, whatever that might be. And when he'd done that, maybe then he would be worthy of her love again, her trust. Maybe then he could give it back to her, what was really rightfully hers all along, and she'd accept it.

He placed it gently in the larger box, beside his map of the city, and shut the lid.


End file.
